Complimentary
by InfamousDaydream
Summary: Three years after Sherlock's death. Both have been so alone, now it's time to face each other again...and their true feelings. The part of John is written by me and the part of Sherlock is written by a friend. Please review and comment, all will be returned and most of all have fun!
1. I'm so alone

He sat on the leather arm chair and watched the movement of the light. It reflected and refracted off the scientific equipment so eloquently each day that he could almost laugh. The intelligence that hung around each instrument was tangible; as though he was still there.

John stood, and moved to the mantelpiece, his eyes traced along the trinkets and dust. Everything in its place and each place its tomb.

He knew that he was a fool to keep believing in the same miracle.

Carefully he picked up something round, his eyes not focusing on its physical attributes but its colour; silver. He stared at it, letting its weight give some comfort and remind him that he was still alive. After some time he placed the object down, leaving it to rot like the rest of the apartment.

The film of grey that saturated the rooms only fuelled his depression. His therapist told him to move, but both knew he never would. Continuously his attachment would be questioned, his beliefs and ideas but everything would always boil down to the same answer; in the same way life itself boils down to one purpose.

He looked over his shoulder at the door. The blue paint was peeling now, and the wall paper was fading. He grimaced and walked out the room. The scenery mocked him, scolded him, tortured him. John Watson, the bachelor sidekick to the great fraud Sherlock Holmes could not even try to save his life. John Watson, the only friend Sherlock Holmes ever had.

The dull sky seemed to be in mourning as it drizzled down, yet John accepted it without distain and simply walked. The city was a blur. No colour, no faces, no words. He moved through the streets, blending in like anybody; not wanting to be noticed just wanting to get through. He hummed to himself, tunelessly, and weaved in and out through the streets. It seemed as though the grey sky was following him, to ensure he would be eternally miserable. He stopped inside a park, unsure of how he arrived and sank down by a tree. He looked up at the dismal scene, as parents strolled by with their children and birds sang happily. He smirked at his bitterness.

"I don't care."

And his head fell into his hands.

The sky was an abyss by the time he returned, all the stars fallen into the silver maw of a demonic beast. The night was cold and the streets were bright with synthetic light that seemed to burn through his eyes.

He sat in the chair, _his _chair, again. He stared into the kitchen, his eyes moving, watching where he'd have been. The sick green walls stared back at him, emotionlessly, a pathetic reflection of the man lost from his life.

"I'm depressed," he said to the lonely air.

"I'm well and truly depressed."

His head sank into his hands once more and he sighed loudly. The room was still cluttered; still the same and he smirked. He lived each day as best as he could, it was enough to fool most that he was coping, but only two people in the world knew the truth behind his eyes.

A low hiss sounded, as though someone was opening a window. John paused and looked up. His eyes darted to the doorway as though Sherlock would be standing there. He shook his head. The empty space of the landing seemed to laugh at him, and he looked down at the red carpet.

A quite creak, he stopped and laughed. It sounded as though someone had stepped, very lightly, down onto the floor outside.

"Oh no, I'm not falling for it this time," his voice rang clear through the rooms.

"Well that's a surprise. Most average people _would_ react in the same manner when hearing a strange noise."

John froze. The noise that had floated through his head had seemed so real; but so had all the other delusions.

"Don't tell me, you of all people, have given up on me?"

The words hurt inside his head. They sounded perfect; each syllable, every letter. He was on the verge of hysterics. His skin prickled and chills ran wild over his body.

John moved his head further towards the wall, focusing on the jammed bookcase and trinkets.

"Please John, look at me."

The words were begged; just like the last time he had heard them.

"And if I do, what I will I see?" His voice cracked, and tears fell down his face. This was cruel. After all the things he had tried to bury his feelings, his feeble defence had been shattered by a single word.

"Turn this way and find out."

He laughed; dry and rotten, decaying like everything in the room. He knew as soon as he turned his head the fairy-tale would end, and the perfect voice would reveal perfect emptiness. Quickly he turned his head towards the door and gasped as his eyes settled on the familiar, angular features.

Sherlock Holmes stood in the doorway wearing an omniscient smile.

John laughed, joy pouring from his voice and wiped his eyes. Utter happiness swept through the man as he looked at the face of his best friend. And Sherlock began to laugh as well, both men truly excited like children at the reunion. John stood and embraced Sherlock in a mildly awkward hug. He thought he'd never see his face let alone touch him. John pulled back and stared allowing the time he needed to savour the details on the taller man's face: his sharp blue eyes, strong cheek bones, pointed nose, full lips.

As he swallowed each detail, his hands opened and closed, clenched and unclenched until his left settled into a tight fist. Sherlock smiled cheekily, and raised his hands in a gesture that a criminal might use when caught red-handed.

John brought his left fist up with incredible speed. It connected with the hard bone of Sherlock's cheek knocking the man backwards and onto the floor. John yelled in pain and flexed his hand, the skin on his middle knuckle was bleeding and the rest were raw. He looked down at Sherlock who was agape with innocent shock.

"Before you say anything to piss me off, just…stand up."

Sherlock nodded and stood. John stared at the cut on his cheek that was welling with blood. He felt the heat rise to his face but did not look away from Sherlock.

"Well that wasn't the exact welcome I was expecting."

"It's been three years," Watson's voice was curt.

"Yes, well time does fly."

He felt the tears in his throat again and swallowed, forcing his body to comply. He would not lose face to this man any more.

"I had to watch you die, Sherlock. And that's all you can say to me?"

Silence snaked its way between them, erecting a barrier between the two.

Sherlock's face tightened, "No. John…I'm sorry."

John took a deep breath and looked away. His mind focused on the carpet, allowing him momentary escape from the situation in front of him.

Sherlock stepped closer to him and John squeezed his eyes shut.

"I can't do this."

"What? What did you say?"

He gazed up, his vision blurring with tears. He blinked just so he could see, and he locked eyes with him.

"I can't hate you."

Sherlock stared at John, his eyes flickered with movement and with each little jump John knew Sherlock was peeling away at him, trying to find out what was running through his mind. A sad smile crossed his face, he had missed that cold stare that could tear apart the sky's façade and topple kings. But hiding something from Sherlock was pointless, like chasing the moon.

John sighed, allowing the silence to expand and contract, opening up space for thought. He couldn't free his mind from anything other than the man that stood in front of him. His scent wrapped its way through his nose and into his head, causing his thoughts to be muddled and slow. Everyone moment he looked away from Sherlock, his chest tightened with fear. He looked up slowly and with his all his strength locked gazes and moved, slowly closing the gap that had formed.

"Sod this."

Quickly he pushed himself up with the balls of his feet and met Sherlock's lips. The kiss was fleeting; a touch against glass, but it was release. The pain that had wrapped around John's chest loosened and he inhaled, satisfied finally that the man in front of him was real.

Sherlock blinked and John blushed, he couldn't keep the smile from his face. The world around him seemed brighter and he could finally live again.

"So, not gay then?"

John smiled and laughed as his lightly punched Sherlock's shoulder.

"Shut up, you silly bastard."

He chuckled softly, on the verge of tears again. As he glanced up at Sherlock he caught his eye; the man's stare seemed to singe his face with its intensity. Even in a moment like this his stare was still the same. To John it was unfair how beautiful that man could be without trying.

He smiled though, allowing himself to indulge in the thoughts of the future; he could the have man everyone feared. And he took Sherlock's hands, holding them gently. His fingers were cold against his own, as though they had never been touched by any warmth. He gazed up at the looming man and felt as though his blue eyes were infinite; two gaping holes leading into the mind of a genius.

He slipped his arms around Sherlock's waist and pulled him close. He buried his face into his chest, letting two strong arms wrap around his back and squeeze. He could have stayed like that forever.

John didn't need anyone other than this man.

Reluctantly their hug ended, and a sly smile crossed Sherlock's face. The silence around them was warm and pleasant; it sat lightly over the two and watched as their love-struck gazes met.

John swallowed and asked a simple question that seemed to weigh down his entire body: "Dinner then?"


	2. What is love?

Mutterings, soft ones, even though no one's here.

(Well, he is.)

Mutterings (n) - sentence fragments, often spoken _sotto voce_, commonly found during the work of a genius and in the homes of the clinically insane.

Odd how genius and insanity so often collide. In his case, John would say that they're synonymous, now shut up and drink your bloody tea, Sherlock, I'm going out.

(John. He missed him.)

Clumsiness - forgets the creaking step (number six) and the slip up is as prominent as a gunshot.

Laughter. (What?)

"Oh, no. I'm not falling for that again."

And that's how this feels, this love nonsense. And it hurts so horribly that Sherlock almost staggers. Three years; thousands of hours. Blood and cheap cigarettes and Indian coffee (terrible). It's been so long.

John's voice. Three years. His _voice_.

Moriarty had promised to burn the heart out of him. He was wrong. He dangles it in front of Sherlock's face even though he's been dead for three years with a bullet in his brain. Sherlock's own brain doesn't work anymore and he wonders if he's going to die from this.

"Well, that's surprising," he says. (What is he saying? Comments like gunshots were so easy before. Sherlock's mouth has run from his mind.) "Most average people would react in the same manner when hearing a strange noise."

_Average_. John has never been average.

Freeze frame: John, staring at books and penknives and potted plants and whatever's been left on his bookshelf. 221B hasn't changed. The lab equipment sits quietly at the table, dusty (untouched) and waiting for the chemical harmony that the experiments bring. The papers are stacked on the desk. The rug is hoovered. A teacup perches on the table by the sofa. It's full, it's cold. Sherlock feels like he's walking through a graveyard.

"Don't tell me you, of all people, have given up on me?" he says. His voice is calm. (Please don't give up on me.)

Rigid posture, line of his shoulders is arrow-straight. Favours his - oh. The limp has returned.

Sherlock hates himself. "Please, John." (After all you've done to him, and you ask for one more favour.) "Look at me."

John chokes, just a little. It's brittle and it burns his heart right from his chest. Love is always a much more vicious motivator.

"And if I do, what will I see?" he says, and it's slow. John's tears fall like rain. A smile, just a little one. It flickers and finally rests on Sherlock's features.

"Turn around and find out," he says.

He falls in love (again) as John does as he says.

Rebellious streak in him; Sherlock would've expected him to shake it off and put the kettle on. But John always has had a way of shattering his expectations, like breaking diamonds and scattering them across the rug.

He stares and stares and stares. John. He smiles. John, after a minute, lets loose a watery laugh. Then there are arms around his waist and the scent of tea and toothpaste floods him, like when everything goes cold and hard after too much ice cream at the seaside, but it's worth it.

Then there's a punch. Things go black for just a moment.

Sherlock touches his cheek and there's just a hint of blood ("If I had to punch that face, I'd avoid your nose and teeth too.")

There's a little cry of pain but it's not his own. John shakes his hand, winces, and Sherlock feels like apologising for hurting the hand that knocked him back onto the floor.

John helps him up, mutters some more. Sherlock's fingers slide against his and he's so warm, radiating heat like a furnace. It's sleeting outside and Sherlock's like ice (inside and out. There is not just one iceman in the Holmes family. They are everywhere).

"That wasn't exactly the welcome I was expecting."

"It's been three years."

"Yes, time does fly."

Firefight at dawn. Or, to put it in simpler terms, verbal sparring at six o'clock on a Wednesday night in the living room of 221B.

"That's all you can say?" John says, and he's angry now, and Sherlock forgets his remorse and moves towards him. They're alive; might as well celebrate.

John carries on. He's livid. "I had to watch you die, Sherlock. And that's all you can say to me?"

No. But Sherlock is not going to say what he wants to say. To look for a term to define how he feels would be the death of the English language.

"No, John," he murmurs. "I'm sorry." And John can see it in his eyes; can read him better than any book, because he nods.

"I can't do this," he says.

(Can't do what? Can't stay? Don't leave, John, please don't leave.)

"What? What did you say?" Sherlock's terrified.

"I can't hate you."

(Oh.)

There's a silence. They watch each other, communicate with their eyes and tell each other everything in a few quiet moments. That's what they do, that's who they are. Holmes and Watson, bound in titanium, two sides of a coin, two halves of a whole. (Sentiment is disgusting.)

"Sod this." John?

And then there's a kiss, a light press of lips that's not friendship or romance. There's a kiss that's tinged with John's apprehension and Sherlock's confusion but it's a kiss, nonetheless.

Sherlock's reaction is hardly eloquent: he blinks.

"So," he says. His voice shakes but it's with glee, with mirth. "Not gay, then?"

And John punches him again, but lightly, and in the shoulder. He's smiling.

Shut up, you silly bastard," he grumbles.

The man is infuriatingly confusing. Heat of the moment? Sherlock doesn't think so. But he can never be sure. Conclusions are like wasps.

There are more smiles and an arpeggio of soft laughter that brings a thrill down Sherlock's spine. He studies John's face as they watch each other. He's unchanged, still solid and steady as a rock. Sherlock's jealous.

John has a date this evening (never met her, Mike's work, probably). Sherlock can assume that he's not going. John will stay here with him. They'll have terrible takeaway and talk. Maybe they'll kiss. They'll work it out. Their relationship is not conclusive, not an equation, but it can come to a point of harmony that will stretch on until they drop.

(They won't drop.)

Fingers lock onto his, and the warmth runs through him.

"Come here," he hears. John's voice cuts through his cognizance like a bow on strings.

(Crescendo).

The hug is less awkward than before. His elbows don't bump John's, no one's face is mashed into a cloth-covered shoulder. It's longer, warmer. Sherlock doesn't want to let him go.  
There's a pause. The silence is peaceful.

"Dinner then?"


End file.
